Lauren walked back to her bedroom. By twelve-fifteen, she’d pulled out three outfits and changed her mind on each one. The truth was, she was thankful for the distraction of clothes. It kept her mind occupied, gave her something to think about beside the pregnancy.
Finally, she ran out of time and wore the outfit she had on: a flowing Indian print gauze skirt, a white T-shirt with black lace at the neckline, and the coat Angie had given her. She straightened her hair and brushed it back into a ponytail, then dabbed on a tiny amount of makeup, just enough to give her pale cheeks and even paler eyelashes some color.
She caught the twelve forty-five crosstown bus.
She was the only passenger on this Thanksgiving Day. There was something sad in it, she supposed, the very portrait of a human being without family.
Then again, it meant she had somewhere to go. Better than the people who sat home alone today, eating dinners from tinfoil trays and watching movies that made you ache for what you didn’t have. All the holiday specials were like that. The movies, the parades; they all showed families coming together, enjoying the day, enjoying each other. Mothers holding …
babies.
Lauren sighed heavily.
It was always right there, buoyant as a cork, ready to pop to the surface of her thoughts.
“Not today,” she said aloud. Why not talk to herself? There was no one here to laugh about it and scoot nervously sideways.
This would be her first ever family Thanksgiving. She’d waited a lifetime for it. She refused to let the baby ruin it for her.
At the corner of Maple Drive and Sentinel, she exited the bus. Outside, the sky was lead pipe gray. It looked more like evening than midday. Wind scraped along the ground, swirling up blackened leaves and shaking the bare trees. It wasn’t raining yet, but it soon would be. A storm was coming.
She buttoned her coat against the cold and hurried down the street, reading house numbers along the way, although she hadn’t needed to. When she came to the DeSaria house, she knew it instantly. The yard was perfectly trimmed and cared for. Purple cabbagelike flowers bloomed along the walkway, created a stream of color against the winter-dead ground.
The house was a beautiful Tudor-style home with leaded glass windows and a slanting shake roof and an arching brick entrance. A statue of Jesus stood by the door, his hands outstretched in greeting.
She walked down the cement path, past a fountain of the Virgin Mary, and knocked on the door.
There was no answer, though she could hear a commotion going on inside.
She rang the bell.
Again, nothing. She was about to turn and leave when the door suddenly flew open.
A tiny, blond-haired girl stood there, looking up. She wore a pretty black velvet dress with white trim.
“Who are you?” the girl asked.
“I’m Lauren. Angie invited me to dinner.”
“Oh.” The girl smiled at her, then turned and ran.
Lauren stood there, confused. Cold air breezed up the back of her skirt, reminding her to shut the door.
Cautiously, she walked through the tiny foyer and paused at the edge of the living room.
It was pandemonium. There had to be at least twenty people in there. Three men stood in the corner by the picture window, drinking cocktails and talking animatedly as they watched a football game. Several teenagers sat at a game table, playing cards. They were laughing and yelling at one another. Some small kids lay on the carpet, sprawled out around the Candy Land board game like spokes on a wheel.
Afraid to walk through the crowd, she backed away from the doorway and turned around. On the other end of the small foyer was another room. In it, a few older people were watching television.
Lauren hurried through, holding her breath. No one asked who she was, and then she found herself at the doorway to the kitchen.
The aroma hit her first.
Pure heaven.
Then she saw the women. They were working together in the kitchen. Mira was peeling potatoes, Livvy was arranging antipasti on an ornate silver tray, Angie was chopping vegetables, and Maria was rolling out pasta.
They were all talking at once, and laughing often. Lauren could make out only snippets of the conversation.
“Lauren!” Angie cried out, looking up from the mound of vegetables. “You made it.”
“Thanks for the invitation.” She realized suddenly that she should have brought something, like a bunch of flowers.
Angie looked behind her. “Where’s your mom?”
Lauren felt herself blush. “She … uh … has the flu.”
“Well, we’re glad you’re here.”
The next thing Lauren knew, she was surrounded by women. For the next hour, she worked in the kitchen. She helped Livvy set the tables, helped Mira set out the antipasto trays in the living room, and helped Angie wash dishes.